Mental Tick (or: The Boy Who Leaped)
by Pseudinymous
Summary: Clockwork was human, once, but he certainly wasn't an ordinary one. A series of interconnected short stories and misadventures about Clockwork's childhood and adolescence as the world's first time traveller, and what happens when the Guardian of Time decides to be irresponsible. [human!Clockwork] [various themes]
1. Outside of Time

**Author****'****s Note:**

Clockwork fic! I've gotten rather fond of Clockwork recently, possibly because I've been planning a Clockwork cosplay for a while now.

This prologue is quick and drabble-y so that we can get to the meat of the story. I've always thought human!Clockwork could be very fun.

* * *

**Mental Tick****  
**(or: The Boy Who Leaped)  
_A fanfic by Pseudinymous_

**Outside of Time**

* * *

The endless ticking is sometimes numbing, sometimes soothing, and sometimes enough to drive one insane.

Clockwork's mind worked just like his namesake. It would tick forwards, one bit at a time, but of course the ticks didn't need to be in their proper order - that was how he saw the time stream in his mirrors, how he knew everything that was and everything that would ever be. He had what he called a _mental tick_, and it went on as loudly and clearly as the throngs of a grandfather clock stuck on twelve.

He'd had the mental tick for as long as he could remember. Clockwork didn't hear it with his ears, for it was not a sound that could ever be said to be heard, but it was there nonetheless. He theorised that it was made by the endless, inevitable progression of time, with little regard for whether that progression was forwards or backwards. Perhaps even left or right.

…

Clockwork was pensive, today.

As a child, his parents had thought him insane - the psychologists too - but he'd proven them wrong in ways they would never be aware of. Sometimes he had the forbidden urge to travel back through the time stream and pay them a visit, but doing so would have been very wrong indeed. Even reliving some of the more definitive parts of his youth would be wrong, as he would have to leave his post to do that.

… _Tick._

Wrong, of course, was relative. The Observants didn't understand that, but Clockwork did. And the outside of time, his clock tower… well, that was rather good at looking after itself. It wasn't as if anything ever changed where time didn't flow.

He deserved a break. And when you got down to it, Clockwork had all the time in the world.

_Tick._


	2. Therapy

**Author****'****s Note:**

I still appear to be deciding whether these little shorts should be in chronological order or not.

I imagine learning to be a responsible timekeeper is hard.

* * *

**Mental Tick  
**(or: The Boy Who Leaped)  
_A fanfic by Pseudinymous_

**Therapy**

* * *

"You know this isn't normal, don't you?"

Jane the therapist was looking at Clockwork with bug-eyed curiosity, flicking her irises as she scanned the small child. But he looked back at her with utmost innocence, wearing his very best _whatever-are-you-talking-about _face, taunting what they both knew.

"It's just a tick," said Clockwork. "I don't mind it."

She pursed her lips at him, and sat forward. "Just because you don't mind it, doesn't mean it's not serious. Did your doctor check you out for hearing problems?"

"It's not something you hear."

"So, it comes from inside your head?"

"Not really."

"Then where?"

Clockwork looked pensively for a moment, and then ran his eyes around the room, which was infinitely more interesting than the therapist could ever hope to be. There was a potted plant that could probably use a drink. An air conditioner that barely worked. And an old, chunky computer that looked like it had been taken straight out of the Cretaceous period.

"Adam?"

"What…?" said Clockwork.

"Adam, you need to answer my question."

"About, uhh…"

"About where that ticking noise comes from."

This therapist had the patience of a stone. She was staring at him levelly, still sitting forward now, and trying to lock eyes so that he couldn't direct his gaze away. The technique worked surprisingly well. Clockwork tried to twist his head to face something else, but it felt as if permanently directed at her, stuck in position by imaginary bounds. Meanwhile, the ticking went on inside, and as much as he was tempted to let himself be taken away by it, he couldn't do that now.

"It's just a part of me, I don't know. I said it doesn't matter."

Jane sat backwards, eyebrows furrowing. Was she becoming perhaps a hint decomposed?

"Sometimes, Adam, symptoms like this can be indicative of the early onset of a few different mental disorders. Doesn't that worry you?"

But Clockwork was rather sure he didn't have any mental disorders. Maybe he was crazy and didn't really know it, but the ticking seemed more like a special kind of gift that he didn't really know how to use, just yet — not something that was deserving of being squinted at by a shrink. After all, he still functioned like a normal human being, for the most part…

"Doesn't dying of cancer worry _you_?" said Clockwork, all too suddenly.

Wait, something was wrong. Those words weren't even in his head, so how had they managed to get out of his mouth? And why was she looking at him with white-faced shock?

The therapy session with Jane didn't last too much longer.

* * *

"Don't you dare ever say that to anyone!"

Clockwork looked up at his mother shyly, as she dragged him across the road towards the carpark.

"I can't believe you did that! This is just… ugh, she was trying to help you, Adam!"

"It's not my fault I was right," Clockwork protested, but his mother was giving him a sharp look with narrowed eyes when they reached the pavement on the other side, and he decided quickly to be quiet.

She shook her head. "What am I going to do with you? You're eight. You shouldn't act like this."

Clockwork didn't know what to say, so he just kept walking, which seemed like the safest option. Maybe he should pretend that the incessant ticking wasn't there anymore, just so she would calm down and stop trying to send him to therapy.

"I can't believe it turned out she really _did _have cancer…" his mother continued. "You're such a complete sod, sometimes."

Clockwork wasn't quite sure what being a complete sod meant, although it seemed like something not particularly positive, given the context in which it was used. So he did what he did best as a child; he ignored it. His mother gave a strangled expression of frustration at his indifference, and decided that the solution was to keep going.

"Aren't you worried at all about what might happen if you don't get this ticking thing addressed?"

"No." said Clockwork.

At this, she finally rolled her eyes and gave up.

"I'm getting you referred to a proper psychologist. And no more cheek, next time!"

"No more cheek, next time." Clockwork mimicked.

"I mean it! Nothing like that tone you're taking with me now! I'm not just some authority figure for you to blindly ignore, I'm your mother! Believe it or not, I do want what's best for you."

"I know you do."

Clockwork's mother opened the car door for him, a concerned expression spread across her face, but she gestured to the seat. "Good, get in."

He didn't bother to say thanks. His mind was already lost in too many other things.

* * *

"Time isn't constant…" said Clockwork, thoughtfully. "It's like… like, all over the place. If you took time and thought about it in your head, it would be kind of like, uhh, getting a piece of paper, screwing it all up, and throwing it on the table. That's what it'd look like."

Jane sat forward again, looking into Clockwork's eyes and sorely wishing she was subject to any other patient. But no one was able to see him as quickly as his mother wished him to be seen, because the referral process just took too long. And - well, admittedly there was a bit of a cash incentive, too.

"Why do you think it looks like that?"

"Because that's the way it is," said Clockwork, very sure of himself for someone who hadn't the faintest trace of evidence. He tore a piece of paper from his notebook while he waited for the therapist's response, and he scrunched it up and threw it on the table.

"You seem very certain." said Jane.

Clockwork nodded. He had thought about that slip of his tongue a lot since their last visit, and somehow, somewhere, he had come up with this model. "It looks like this," he reassured her, as he began to tap at the little folds. "And if this piece of paper was the part about you, you getting cancer would be here, you getting better would be here, and you dying would be here."

Jane usually gave confectionary to children at the end of a session, but Clockwork never found out about that.


	3. Lines and Snags

**Author****'****s Note:  
**And then the ticking became a problem.

* * *

**Mental Tick  
**(or: The Boy Who Leaped)  
_A fanfic by Pseudinymous_

**Lines and Snags**

* * *

Clockwork sat in his room, after being locked in there by his mother.

Well, there was a plus side to all of this — it was possible she'd never send him to therapy ever again, not after the events that had transpired. On the other hand, now she was more disappointed in him than ever, and the boy's insides twisted a little at the thought, at knowing that he'd let her down in such a way. After all, she did try her best, even if he didn't always agree with her.

So, in the monotony, he redirected his thoughts back to the model he'd come up with. It was very elegant, he thought, and quite perfect, even though many were sure to disagree. The more he set his mind on thinking it out, the more convinced he became that time really did look like that scrunched up ball of paper, a unique one for each person. He was also convinced that it had to be possible to traverse, although only if you had the right equipment. If he were able to traverse time like that, he'd be able to easily escape from his locked bedroom door, but… well, if he were to be more practical, he could probably just swing himself out of his first floor window, if he was really desperate.

Clockwork wondered when his mother would finally open the door. And whether she would ever stop thinking he'd lost more than few sets of his marbles.

Oh, but that was simple, wasn't it? His mother would be back to let him out in approximately 27 minutes, and she would never stop thinking he was at least a _little _bit out of touch with reality. It seemed so obvious now. Even though it was a feeling he had, he also knew that it wasn't _just a feeling _ — it seemed so important, so right and quintessential to who he was, that knowing this was natural. Clockwork knew he was going to be right, and there was nothing he could personally do to dispute that.

27 minutes later, the latch to the door twisted open, and his mother stepped through.

"Adam," she began, lips curling into an unreadable expression, "I'm sorry."

Clockwork didn't know what to do. She was apologising? Why? It made even less sense than the not-exactly-sane idea that he'd been able to figure out how long it would take her to let him out, for no explainable reason. So he let the silence fill the space instead, waiting for her to elaborate.

Clockwork's mother was looking down at her feet, now, apparently trying to take an avid interest in them and their relationship with the floor. "I'm sorry for scolding you, and keeping you in your room," she managed, awkwardly. "But… but please, you have to tell me how you knew she had cancer."

More silence, because Clockwork really wasn't sure how to explain. He searched around in his head for something that his mother would actually understand, but it really didn't seem to be there. She didn't have a background in science and wasn't one for philosophy, either, so getting his point across seemed like quite the impossible task. But she was giving him one of those begging, underprivileged looks… the one he had trouble saying no to.

So he explained the best way he knew how.

"I just knew," said Clockwork, with a simple shrug. "If I think about it I can sort of feel some of the folds and lines… in time."

His mother lowered a sceptical eyebrow. Clockwork didn't like the way this was going.

"It makes sense, mum! It sort of just… came to me, but I was right! And I think I can be right about other things, too. That… the ticking thing, that's what makes it work."

Oh no. That sceptical eyebrow was becoming a most bizarre expression of disappointment and disbelief, her face screwing up like an overripe prune. Clockwork recoiled, and made a slow move to scoot further up against the backboard of his bed.

"And… and that's how you think you knew," she hazarded. "Was it the same when you basically flat-out told her she was going to die?"

Another shrug, although this one was far too sheepish.

"I see," his mother finished, quietly. Her head hung low with a subtle bow, and she walked out of the room, apparently giving up. Clockwork could feel the disappointment, the worry and fear, as it emanated off her in waves. Such horrid emotions seemed to cling to the bedroom walls, thickening the air until he felt almost as if choking on it.

It was suffocating, in its own way.

Clockwork's mind turned itself over, trying its very best to hold everything together. He hadn't been properly upset in more than a few years — he was a stoic child — but he could _not _deal with this right now, and he wasn't sure why. Anger, apparently, he could deal with… but that betrayed, disbelieving look, the look that made his mother seem as if she'd lost all hope for her only child… that, he couldn't process so well today. The guilt was overwhelming, enough to be a violent and tangible force that wreaked havoc on his insides and twisted up his stomach. It was a ridiculous reaction, really, but he couldn't do anything about it.

So it continued to rage, in spite of all attempts to contain the blaze. And it got worse, until it seemed like something in his chest was being violently torn apart, and in amongst this Clockwork finally realised that what he was feeling was a long way away from normal. Emotions weren't supposed to physically _hurt _this much.

Not even slightly.

His mother raced in at her son's yelps and cries for help, but the only thing she could do was sit down next to him as he curled up into a tight foetal position, unwilling to uncurl, where he eventually began to sob at the raw and blinding pain. It made him see white, see stars, see lines and snags in time that didn't seem real. It made him actually see the ticking for the very first time, but he didn't know what any of that meant, and was too far gone to give it all a proper thought.

Clockwork's mother panicked, and ran from the room to go and dial 999. But when she returned, Clockwork was gone.


End file.
